


angel

by victorlimadelta



Series: Trans Sheith Week 2021 [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Body Worship, Bubble Bath, Gender Identity, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Makeup, Nudity, Trans Keith (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-24 14:28:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30073650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/victorlimadelta/pseuds/victorlimadelta
Summary: He just wants to laugh at how utterly ridiculous and besotted Shiro is, to be worried about his emotional comfort when to Keith it’s only ever been about the man looking at himself in the mirror and dissecting his own flaws. “You’re serious?” he asks instead, pulling the drain and shaking out his shoulders. “Shiro, I have literallyneverworn makeup. It’s fine. I mean it.”“I didn’t even have to shave this morning,” Shiro tells his reflection. “I think you might be more masculine than I am.”—For Day 2 of Trans Sheith Week 2021, hitting both prompts femininity and masculinity.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Series: Trans Sheith Week 2021 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2210808
Comments: 1
Kudos: 36





	angel

**Author's Note:**

> Mostly AFAB language used for Keith, a little AMAB as well.

“Does it bother you?” Shiro asks him.

“Does what bother me?” Keith answers.

He’s lounging—frothing, really— in their oversize bathtub, jets bullying his aching back muscles into submission. Whatever’s in the bath bomb that Shiro threw in here last-minute is loosening him up just as much. And it’s making the whole bathroom smell amazing, lemongrass and grapefruit and all sorts of sharp, clean things that wake Keith up just as effectively as a cup of coffee.

The view doesn’t hurt, either. Shiro’s leaned over the right sink of their his-and-his vanity, nothing but a pair of boxers interrupting Keith’s view of his skin. Which is a shame, really, because Shiro has a lovely ass, although the way his muscular thighs go all taut where they cut into the countertop is just as dreamy. He’s concentrating hard, full lips fallen half-open, stomach clenched as he tips in, and his Altean hand is inhumanly steady as he holds some kind of pen to his left eye. “That I wear makeup,” Shiro clarifies, and starts drawing a black line along his eyelid.

“What?” Keith says, just to have a minute to process it.

“I have really narrow eyes, and this helps,” Shiro says, like an explanation. The pen sweeps from the inside corner to the outside, a bold statement left in its wake. “I learned some tricks from the drag queens I knew in Plaht City, not anything fancy, just... enough to enhance.” There’s a matching line on his right eye, now, a perfect flick of Shiro’s wrist at the end painting on just the hint of a wing.

It’s eyeliner, Keith realizes. “Why would that bother me?”

Shiro’s quiet for a good minute. His tongue is covering his top teeth as he puts the pen on the inside of his bottom eyelashes, just barely coloring in the waterline there with little dabs. When he’s done, he clicks his mouth and scrutinizes his work in the mirror. “It’s a little femme, isn’t it?”

“And you think it’s some kind of threat to your masculinity?” Keith scoffs. There’s sweat trickling down his temple; he shoves one foot out of the water to turn off the jets and relaxes back with a sigh.

It’s way quieter in here without the roar of the jets. “Not to mine,” and Shiro’s voice rings off the walls while he rattles around in a vanity drawer for some other beauty product. “To yours.”

Keith is trying to take this seriously and the universe isn’t giving him any credit. He just wants to laugh at how utterly ridiculous and besotted Shiro is, to be worried about his emotional comfort when to Keith it’s only ever been about the man looking at himself in the mirror and dissecting his own flaws. “You’re serious?” he asks instead, pulling the drain and shaking out his shoulders. “Shiro, I have literally _never_ worn makeup. It’s fine. I mean it.”

“I didn’t even have to shave this morning,” Shiro tells his reflection. “I think you might be more masculine than I am.”

Keith’s climbing out of the tub, now, fragrant water clinging to his body and slipping down, down, down. He can see the moment Shiro’s eyes dilate when they catch on him, a definite weight on his skin as he traces a rivulet from Keith’s face shadow down the wet sworl of hair between his nipples, breaking off into droplets that run down the length of his lean abdomen. Some catch in the tangle of his pubes; others bump over the tension of his adonis line, running down to catch in the gradient pelt over his thighs and calves. “Yes,” he says, sarcastic and acidic, rubbing his hands down his arms to sluice the tub juice off of him before he reaches for a towel. “My _masculine_ tits and my _extremely masculine_ pussy.”

“Don’t,” Shiro tells him. “Come here.”

“I’m all wet.”

Shiro arches an eyebrow, one side of his smile quirking up. Just that little change in his expression makes Keith’s face heat up. That’s _not_ how he meant it. “Come here,” he repeats. Like Keith is bucking off his command.

Like Keith is capable of saying no to him when he’s like this. His eyes throw a hot challenge to Shiro’s, but he’s met with all sharp outline and smoky gray, a hungry gaze that takes Keith’s breath away. Fine. He’ll just concentrate on the set of his gait across the tile floor, each step leaving behind a puddled footprint.

Shiro welcomes him with open arms and pulls him close as soon as Keith’s in his orbit. His gentle, steady hands smooth up Keith’s sides, pluck at his arms to pick up his wrists and lay Keith’s elbows over his broad shoulders. “Hey, baby,” he murmurs, dipping down for a quick, soft smooch.

Or, Keith’s pretty sure it was supposed to be quick and soft. He is captured, captivated by Shiro’s lips, and his eyelashes flutter closed as Shiro pulls him close. His skin is slick from bath oils and slides nicely across Shiro’s front as he leans in for a second kiss, steamy with humidity and filthy with a sly nip to the swell of Shiro’s bottom lip. His mouth is just so goddamn kissable. “Hi, angel,” Keith purrs back at him.

Keith can nearly _smell_ the way the affection makes Shiro’s pulse tick up. The other man bites him back, playful at his cupid’s bow, and smiles against his teeth. “Your angel,” he says, heavy with promises that he’s not about to act very angelic at all. His mouth ducks away from Keith’s, presses into the snarled mark cutting into his right cheek. “Turn around,” he says into Keith’s ear. “Back to my front.”

Shiro twirls the two of them elegantly, like they’re dancing celestial bodies instead of clunky, scarred meat sacks, prosthetic hand smooth and cool on the tuck of Keith’s waist. Keith lets himself be moved, a moon in Shiro’s gravity well, and his eyes drift closed. With blood-warm fingers, Shiro arranges Keith’s arms over his head, curling them back so Keith’s nails are just barely scraping at Shiro’s upper back. It’s too easy, from this position, for Shiro to rest his chin on the gift Keith was given during his trial with the Blade of Marmora.

“Open your eyes,” Shiro says. And the vision that greets Keith when he does is—something. The two of them are facing the vanity mirror; in this pose, Keith’s body is long and powerful, chin tipped back just enough to show off the jut of his hard-won adam’s apple under his morning stubble. His nipples are pink and pert, the swell of his breasts pulled so thin that the optical illusion renders a flat chest instead. He’ll never be as chiseled as Shiro, but from this angle, with the forgiving light around the mirror, Keith nearly looks cut. There’s definite lats hugging his ribs, a defined V leading down his front. His saving grace is that the countertop cuts off right at the low sling of his hips, so he doesn’t have to face the blank space between his legs. “Look at you,” Shiro coos, his eyes sparkling.

It’s hard not to. “You make me look good, angel,” is all Keith has to say.

“No, you built this yourself. Take some pride in it, baby.” Shiro’s tone is deep and genuine, and without meaning to, Keith finds himself swept up in what he has to say. “You’re so strong,” bringing his Altean hand up Keith’s body to pinch without fingernails at a nipple, “look at these pecs.”

“Yours are bigger than mine,” Keith pouts.

Shiro chuckles. “You’re right,” he says, easy and free. “My tits are obscene. I can’t believe they don’t make me wear compression gear under my uniform jacket.” Another tweak, just hard enough that it makes Keith’s knees weak and his mouth fall open around a gasp—one that pushes his nipple right into cruel fingertips, a delicious feedback loop. “These? Look how flat you are. Look how _sensitive_ you are.”

“Not fair,” Keith sighs. Those nerve endings are something he would miss out on with top surgery, but he’s always liked the way Shiro touches him here. And—and maybe—maybe from this angle he can kind of see it, the masculine sculpt of his chest compared to the bulge of Shiro’s.

“That’s right,” Shiro encourages him. “It’s not fair how handsome you look, baby. Look at this. Look at your abs.” And while Keith’s waist is narrow, while Shiro can close around it with both hands and does so now, the way his fingers fall into the grooves of his muscles is a reward. “You’re so muscular. Just the way I like my men.”

“You’d better not like any other men,” Keith growls.

“And possessive,” Shiro appreciates, his palms gone equally covetous down Keith’s sides. “Lean _and_ mean.”

“Anybody’s mean compared to you, angel.”

Almost as if to prove Keith’s point, Shiro sneaks a sugar-sweet kiss to the side of Keith’s neck. Keith tips back to expose his throat, head on Shiro’s shoulder, fingers looped loose around the base of his skull to pet at his shorn-short white hair. “I try very hard to be kind,” Shiro agrees, framing Keith’s sharp hips, the muscles cording from belly to thigh. “Especially to you. All I ever wanted was a space for you to grow into the man you wanted to be, and you fought so hard for it, but look at you now.”

The more compliments Keith gets, the harder it is to keep his eyes forward. Especially with the way thick, long fingers are dipping between his legs to trace out the sensitive skin of his inner thighs. “Yeah, look at me,” he bites off, shyness flaring into anger. “I’m a failure. I don’t even have a—”

“Hm?” Shiro interrupts him, hands finally hitting home. Keith’s half-hard just from the smooth, earnest rumble of Shiro’s voice, the span of his hands showing off every part of Keith he adores. And when Shiro’s fingertips find the jut of him, they curl around it like they could jack him off like this. “Yes, you do,” he insists, “I’m touching it right now.”

Something settles low in Keith’s stomach, a cross between the calibrating coil of a pit viper and and the dangerous clench of a cliff dive. “My dick?”

“Yes, baby.” The way Shiro’s touching him has Keith melting in his arms, holding onto his neck for dear life as Shiro plays between his thighs. “You stab yourself in the thigh once every other week just so you can have this. That’s incredible—no other man I know would be willing to do that.”

“Not even you?”

“Not even me.” Shiro’s right hand goes a little slower across his clit, like he’s distracted, and Keith knows what he’s thinking about: a child’s illness, a young adult’s stubbornness, a grown man’s torture at enemy hands.

Well, that won’t do. Keith will just have to distract him. And it’s not like it’s particularly difficult. With the water clinging to him from the bath, his skin soaked Shiro’s boxers; the fabric clings to the other man’s front, and if he presses back just right, Keith can feel how hard Shiro is. “You wouldn’t have to,” he says, low and rude. “You already have this.” And he gets up on his toes, on strong ankles but weak knees, to push the plush of his ass against the heavy curve of Shiro’s cock, frame it between his cheeks when he arches sinuously against Shiro’s chest.

Shiro hiccups, the delicate thing, like he can’t quite believe Keith could turn the tables on him so effectively. “What use is it,” Shiro says, hushed against the shell of Keith’s ear, “if I can’t use it to please my baby?”

Keith grinds again, listening for the telltale gulp when Shiro swallows. “I told you I was wet, angel.”

“You are?” The Altean hand dips further into Keith’s sensitives, slicking across the seam of him and sinking into the viscous, hot nectar he finds. The human hand, though, smacks hard enough at Keith’s ass that the sound reverberates in the small room. It gives him just enough space to push down his underwear and take his dick in hand.

For one horrifying, thrilling moment, Keith thinks Shiro might just take him here, like this. No prep, no condom, no spreading his legs, just forcing his cunt open around blunt girth and skin-friction while keeping him closed and tight and pretty. What he actually does, though, might be even better. There’s this little space, right where the engorged puff of his pussy doesn’t quite fill the gap between his thighs, and it’s all damp and oily from his bath and messy from the arousal seeping from him.

Shiro thrusts into that instead, the hot, soft skin over the throb of his shaft dragging deliciously against Keith’s sensitive inner thighs. The little moan Shiro makes just behind his ear is devastating. And his cock is so fucking huge that, even when their bodies fit flush, the ruddy head and a few extra inches swell in front of Keith, glistening with his wet. “Look at you,” he breathes. “Touch it—just like you would if—”

“If it was mine?” Keith teases, tensing his adductors just to squeeze Shiro between them. “Oh, but it is, angel. This is all mine.” The slim fingers of his left hand wrap around, the circle of his thumb and forefinger just under the thick ridge of the head, and he gives one, two strokes, pulling his foreskin up and down, up and down.

“Fuck,” Shiro swears. His human hand is clutching at Keith’s thigh so hard he’s got to be leaving crescent-moon marks where his nails are denting in. His prosthetic fingers are shaking, the tremor almost like a vibration where they’re tucked against Keith’s clit. And Keith jerks him off slow, wet from slick and precum, the mess of both of them seeping down the insides of his legs.

It doesn’t take long before Shiro’s thrusting against him, back bowed to rest his forehead on Keith’s shoulder and muffle his gasping, choking cries against the knobs of Keith’s spine. At a particularly inventive twist of Keith’s grip, Shiro bites at the nape of his neck, moaning his pleasure past the suck of skin into his mouth. When Keith taps a fingertip against the weeping slit of Shiro’s cock, Shiro folds back the skin around the nub of Keith’s dick, holding it between forefinger and middle and running his touch up and down the meat of it. “Shiro!” Keith yells out, a shocked, strung-out sound that warbles on the end vowel.

“Yeah, Keith, oh,” and Keith can feel the twitch that runs from base to tip everywhere between his legs and in his hand, signaling the beginning of the end. Keith’s close, too, shudders running through the tension in his thighs, toes curling in on the tile where he’s tipped onto them, head swimming. “Jerk it,” Shiro tells him, “want you to see what it looks like when—oh—oh—Keith—!”

The pulse that starts pumping through Shiro’s cock perfectly matches the throbbing clench inside Keith’s cunt, and he comes right when Shiro starts shooting, throat closing around a howl. There’s a series of wet splat sounds as cum hits their bathroom cabinets, clinging stringy to the wood. The last of it drips out, icing over Keith’s knuckles. “Holy shit,” he sighs out, winded, legs going limp like someone cut his puppet strings.

His only saving grace is the hand he’d wrapped around the back of Shiro’s neck—that, and Shiro leaning forward to brace the two of them against the counter. “Keith,” he says, clearly exhausted but his eyes still on fire when he looks back at him through the mirror. His shy smile is tucked against the scar on Keith’s right shoulder, right alongside the tender touch of his lips like he could sew him back together. “You’re such an amazing man. I just want you to see what I see.”

“I’m trying, Shiro.” He really is—it’s just so difficult. To be faced with two societies’ worth of expectations on how to _be_ a man, and to be with someone who turns the definition on its head every day. He was never particularly good at being feminine, but does that mean—

“Stop grinding your gears, baby.” The kissing comes to his cheek, then to the corner of his mouth. In the mirror, Shiro’s hair is perfectly mussed, his eyeliner smoky, his lips so kiss-bitten that they look stained that perfect deep pink. “It’s okay. Whenever you forget, whenever you think it’s not enough, I’ll be here to remind you.”

Keith smiles despite himself, twisting to full-on kiss his man. “How many times are you going to pull me out of my own head like this?”

And it’s an echo of every promise they’ve ever made each other, summed up in so few words: “As many times as it takes.”

**Author's Note:**

> Someday I’ll write something that’s not horny. Today is not that day. 🤷
> 
> Scream at me on Twitter @victorlimadelta.


End file.
